Media Secret: Hidden Johansson

Trying to Find the Rhythm

February had settled in over Los Angeles, but instead of the usual rain and chill, the days were warm, kissed by the early-spring sunshine that made the city feel like it was stuck in an eternal summer. Life outside the bubble of recovery moved forward at an almost dizzying pace, and I was trying—really trying—to catch up. But every step forward felt weighted, like dragging my feet through the mud of memories and experiences that I couldn't shake off.

I spent most of my days adjusting to the rhythm of being back, moving between my mom's house and random walks around the neighborhood. The structure of Switzerland was gone—the daily routine of therapy, the regularity of group sessions, even the simple comfort of knowing everyone around me understood. Now, I was back in the "real" world, and the weight of that freedom sat heavy on my shoulders.

My mom, Scarlett, was careful. She gave me space to breathe but always made sure I wasn't too far gone. It was a delicate balance—one I knew she struggled with—but she never let it show. She kept herself busy, working on her latest project and quietly adjusting her schedule to make sure she was around whenever I needed her. I appreciated that, even though I wasn't sure how to express it.

After a few days, she finally convinced me to get out of the house for something beyond a walk along the beach. She suggested grabbing dinner in the city, something simple, just the two of us.

"I know you're not ready for anything big," she had said that morning. "But maybe just a quiet place, a nice meal. It could help."

I'd agreed, mostly to ease her mind. I wasn't sure if it would help, but I figured I owed it to her to at least try.

As we drove through the city that evening, I stared out the window, watching the world pass by in a blur of lights and movement. Los Angeles had always felt overwhelming to me—the traffic, the noise, the constant hum of life that never seemed to stop. But tonight, it felt different. Not in a bad way, but not quite right either. Like I was watching it all from a distance, detached from everything.

We pulled up to a small restaurant tucked into one of the quieter streets of Santa Monica. It wasn't anything fancy, just a cozy little spot that she'd picked for its calm atmosphere. We walked inside, and I could tell she'd made an effort to choose a place that wasn't crowded, where the noise wouldn't overwhelm me.

The hostess led us to a table near the back, away from the other diners. I sank into my seat, trying to relax, but the tension in my shoulders hadn't left. I scanned the room out of habit, mapping out the exits and mentally noting the people sitting around us. Old habits die hard.

Scarlett noticed, of course. She always did.

"You okay?" she asked softly, her eyes searching mine.

"Yeah," I lied, offering a half-hearted smile. "Just... adjusting."

She nodded, not pushing me further. She'd learned over the years when to let things lie and when to press. Tonight, she chose to let me be.

The waiter came by, taking our orders, and soon enough, we were sitting in silence, waiting for the food. Scarlett started making small talk, telling me about her latest film and how things were going on set. I listened, nodding along, but my mind kept drifting back to Switzerland. To the long days of therapy, the sessions with Dr. Weiss, the quiet moments of reflection that had somehow felt easier over there.

"Tom," Scarlett's voice pulled me back, and I realized I'd missed whatever she'd just said.

"Sorry," I muttered, shaking my head to clear it. "What did you say?"

She gave me a knowing look but didn't call me out on it. "I was just saying that Florence texted me. She asked how you were doing."

I felt a pang in my chest at the mention of her name. Florence had been a constant in my life before I left, but after a year in Switzerland, the distance between us felt vast. We'd kept in touch occasionally, but I hadn't seen her since New Year's Eve, before I'd flown back to the rehab center to finish out my treatment.

"What did you tell her?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"I told her you're doing well," Scarlett said, giving me a small smile. "But that you're taking things slow. She said she'd love to see you when you're ready."

I nodded, not sure what to say. The idea of seeing Florence again stirred something inside me—something between excitement and fear. She'd been such a grounding force for me before, but now... I wasn't sure if I was ready to face her. Or face the person I'd become.

The waiter returned with our food, placing the dishes in front of us, and I was grateful for the distraction. We ate in relative silence, the sounds of the restaurant buzzing around us, but nothing loud enough to set me off.

After dinner, we walked back to the car, the cool evening air wrapping around us like a soft blanket. Scarlett didn't push me to talk, and I was grateful for that. Instead, she just walked beside me, her presence a quiet reassurance that I wasn't alone in this.

As we drove home, the city lights blurred past us, and for the first time in a long time, I felt something close to hope. Maybe I wasn't fully okay yet, but I was here. I was trying. And that had to count for something.

Back at the house, I stood in the guest room, staring out the window at the vast expanse of Los Angeles spread out below. The city was alive, buzzing with energy, and yet here I was, standing still, caught between the past and the future.

A soft knock on the door broke the silence.

"Come in," I called, turning to see Scarlett standing in the doorway.

She stepped inside, her eyes gentle as she looked at me. "I'm proud of you, you know. For everything."

I swallowed hard, her words catching me off guard. I didn't feel like there was much to be proud of, but I nodded, appreciating her sentiment.

"Thanks, Mom," I said quietly.

She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around me in a rare show of affection. I stiffened for a moment, but then I relaxed, letting myself lean into the hug. It felt good, comforting, in a way I hadn't realized I needed.

"You're going to be okay," she whispered, her voice steady. "It's going to take time, but you will be."

I didn't respond, but I held onto her a little tighter, hoping she was right.

When she finally pulled back, she gave me one last smile before leaving the room. I stood there for a while longer, staring out at the city, letting the weight of everything settle into me.